


Her

by missEm



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25883896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missEm/pseuds/missEm
Summary: Back home, missing what he loves the most, knowing she is lost to him forever...
Relationships: Caitriona Balfe/Sam Heughan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	Her

The mere thought of her laughter makes him feel short of breath. Like suddenly there isn’t enough air in the room. Like he can’t breathe without her. Like she is the reason he even exists. It is as if his sole purpose in life is to make her laugh, to make her happy. But that isn’t up to him, not anymore.

He is sprawled out upon the sheets, lying on the bed in his apartment, wearing only boxers and a thin white t-shirt, and yet, somehow, he is sweating. The night is warm, warmer than usual this time of year, and in _this_ place where summer usually lasted a couple of weeks at the most? It’s ironic really. What he craved was coolness. Anything to keep his heart, his chest, his cock from burning, from _longing_. 

He had longed for the cold, after endless weeks in the blazing sun, with too much time, too many thoughts, too many blondes that did absolutely fucking nothing to soothe the ache that he carried within him always. He didn’t even notice it was there at times; often, he would be fortunate enough to distract himself to a point where he would not think about it. But it was always there, like a part of him he didn’t want but had to accept nonetheless. And when he thought it had finally faded, when he could breathe without restraint, when he managed to fool himself into thinking that he was over _her_ , it would flare up and floor him again. 

Knock him dead. 

Like now. Alone. Home. But still lost. He had thought it would get better, coming home, being closer to her, geographically anyway. But it only got worse. Each day he is here, trapped inside these rooms, the ache intensifies. It paralyzes him, leaves him frozen, unables him to do anything but think of her. Still, he tries to keep up his routine, to exercise, write, fix dinner, watch tele, and sleep. 

Correction; try to sleep. 

Try to write. 

Try to breathe. 

It isn’t working very well. Nothing is. 

He checks his phone again. 

**No new messages**

God he is so pathetic. 

Why would there be? They had spoken three days ago, the moment he had landed actually. A brief but polite conversation about the long flight, the last script for next season, latest news (how bloody Corona was making everything into a sodding mess), Eddie... It was the same conversation they always had. Like following a script. Keeping themselves within boundaries. Clinging to the safety of familiar words. Saying nothing about anything important. 

The things that mattered, the words he wanted to say were trapped within his throat. _Burning_ a hole in his chest. The tears that threatened to fall stinging his eyes. 

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

“Oh for Christ’s sake, get a hold of yourself…” he mutters, and pulls himself out of bed. 

He walks over to the window and opens it up a bit more. Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head, letting the evening breeze caress his face, his torso, making the tiny hairs on his arms stand up, making his nipples harden, cooling his overheated skin. 

But then...

Her laughter again, an echo in his mind, the sound of it like bells. Images of her, running barefoot in the sand, in the waves tumbling onto the beach. Her hair, getting all tousled up by the salty ocean breeze. Her eyes staring at him through the lens. Her voice, low and melodic reading those lines, reading _that_ poem, the one he had learned by heart, only because it spoke to him in a way he couldn’t explain. 

And he had whispered the words to her in the dark, his mouth against her hair, their naked bodies entangled, glistening in the afterglow, him still inside her. 

All those years ago…

_“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,_

_Enwrought with golden and silver light,_

_The blue and the dim and the dark cloths_

_Of night and light and the half light,_

_I would spread the cloths under your feet:_

_But I, being poor, have only my dreams;_

_I have spread my dreams under your feet;_

_Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”_

(“He wishes for the cloths of heaven”, WB Yeats)

He can’t shake that. Part of him thinks it is unforgivable in a way, how she had read it for all the world to hear, for anyone who wanted to hear. He still doesn’t know why she had chosen that particular poem; if she had done it to hurt him, to drive a stake through his heart, or if she wanted to tell him something, anything... He hasn’t found the strength to muster up the nerve and ask her about it so he still doesn’t know, his cowardice forcing him to live with the lack of knowledge. 

But he did watch that video on loop, because what else could he do but torture himself. Heart pounding. Palms sweaty. Tears burning behind his eyes. Wanting to smash the phone into million little pieces, the way she had shattered his heart into something barely recognisable. 

_Her._

His Cait.

Only she wasn’t. Not anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time. So what was the point of all this? He was positive there was none but still, he couldn’t stop himself. With her he had never been able to.

With a sigh he sits down on the bed, picks up his phone again. Without having to think he clicks into the folder with the saved pictures that he most frequently opens.

_Cat_.

And there she is, just like that. Every shade of her, every style, every single photoshoot she has ever done (alone and with him). 

Every age. 

He isn’t proud of it but he always goes back to a certain one, to begin with anyhow. From before the show, before him, back when she was still walking runways and taking the modelling world by storm. She is standing in a bright room, her hair falling, cascading down her back. Her face in profile, high cheekbones and delicate nose. Her tall slim figure garbed in an elegant white skirt; some kind of tiny black tank top, leaving far too much to the imagination. 

“Help me,” he whispers for no one to hear, “please forgive me…” He runs a hand through his hair, wets his lips. He doesn't want to do this, really don’t. The guilt of it, feeling as though he is using her, the image of her, eats him up from inside, makes him feel sick. But still. The mere thought of her pale smooth skin under his hands sends a rush of desire through his body and straight down, making him hard; helplessly turned on. Now, fixated on her image he feels his cock twitch, straining impatiently against his boxers, precum staining the fabric. 

With his phone in one hand, he moves up the bed and leans back against the pillows. He scrolls through the photos, stopping to look more intently at some than others, all the while palming himself, slowly at first, boxers still on. As the need builds, his balls tightening, he tugs them down to mid thigh and takes a firm hold of his now impossibly hard cock, his hand moving up and down the shaft, a pearly white bead sitting at the tip.

He is taking his time looking through the pictures, knowing damn well what he is searching for and then, there it is, the one he needs today. 

A moan escapes his lips as he enlarges the picture. Dark eyes staring back at him, her hair a well styled mess, her body far too skinny. But still...

_Oh God_ …

It is a weird setting to be honest. She is lying in the back window of an old car; nipples perky and dark, showing through the sheer fabric of the bra she’s wearing. Or might as well not be wearing. There’s a pair of small see-through panties to match. Very tiny, barely covering her.

_Her pussy_. 

Her sweet, amazing pussy. Always wet for him. Always ready, willing. Tight and hot and _his_. Used to be his.

He is breathing heavily, his hand wrapped tightly around his erection, pumping at a controlled, steady pace in an effort to prolong the pleasure that is rapidly building as he looks at her, as always in awe of her beauty.

Closing his eyes he imagines her sitting in his lap, imagines himself buried deep inside her hot wet centre as she slowly rides him. He can picture it, her head thrown back, lost in pleasure. Rocking her hips, grinding herself against him, his pubic hair rasping against her clit. 

As he fists his cock he sees himself kneading that perfect round arse of hers, holding her steady as her movements become more and more urgent. His fingers trailing down between her buttocks, the skin slick with her juices, all the way to where they are joined, his shaft as wet as her cunt as it glides in and out of her tight opening. In his mind he is touching them both, hearing her whimper and moan as she comes closer and closer to reaching her climax. 

It has him spiraling, imagining the sounds she makes.

He won’t be able to control himself much longer, biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood. His phone is thrown to the side, and has fallen upon the dark blue covers of the bed. He rubs his right thigh, grabs hold of his balls, feeling the familiar rush of pleasure causing them to tighten. 

The image of her is so vivid he can smell her, feel her. It’s a mixture of the expensive perfume she bought in Paris, her own wetness on her fingers, the distinct flowery scent of her hair brushing against his face and chest. Her hardened nipples grazing him with each move, her hands clawing at the back of his neck, nails leaving red welts in their wake, her slick walls clamping his cock with each thrust, burying him deeper and deeper within her, fucking him harder and harder…

It feels too good, the image of her too real and he comes. Spills himself in long squirts all over the bed sheets. The orgasm makes him moan out loud, a protracted growl from deep within his throat, making him fold over himself, his cock still in his hand, cum smeared all over it, streaking his thighs and stomach. 

It takes a while before he returns to reality, not willing to let her go just yet, desperately holding on to his fantasy of her. As the vision fades from his mind, the anxiety builds. Slowly opening his eyes he sees the picture of her still on his phone, the stains on the bed sheets, on him. 

The sticky feeling on his hands.

It makes him sick to his stomach. The fact that he can’t control himself, the fact that he is using an image of her in her twenties to get himself off. He cannot reconcile himself with what he just did, with what he does regularly, like a drug addict not capable of quitting the one thing that hurts them the most. It makes him hate himself, the miserable excuse for a human being that he is. 

_Shit_. 

He can feel tears stinging behind his eyes, the itch in his throat. He manages to get himself out of bed and into the shower where he collapses against the cool tiles. He allows the water to wash over him, as cold as he can bear almost to the brink of being painful. It makes him shiver but it helps him ignore the hot tears streaming down his face. The water is cooling him from the outside in, easing the burning ache in his chest until there is nothing left but emptiness, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

_Still_.

Emptiness is better than agony.

Definitely better than pain.

And infinitely better than missing what he’ll never have.  
  
  



End file.
